


Not Passive But Aggressive

by celestialism



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mild Language, more tags to come, this is the bookstore/coffeeshop/college student au that no one whatsoever asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialism/pseuds/celestialism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Joe's sacred coffee-and-comics ritual is all but ruined by the judgemental hipster who is destroying his life.<br/>Webster would love nothing more than to never have to serve that smart-mouthed punk loser.<br/>Everyone else just wants them to get their shit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>    
> If it appears that I am taking immense creative liberties with characters, quotes and references, it's because I am.  
> I mean no disrespect to the real people whose names are used in this work. This is a fictional work purely based on the actors' representations throughout the television series, not on the actual historical personas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare to be disappointed.

The book store that David Webster works in one of the oldest businesses in the city. It’s nestled between an old cinema and a building firm, way up on the main street, just around the corner from an almost equally ancient bar. The store prides itself in it’s heritage and selection of literature, but also on it’s cafe; a humble counter and a few tables tastefully arranged by the bay windows.

Webster’s interest in the place goes back to his early teens, when he decided that being a hipster cliche was more than okay with him, if by that title he could enjoy good coffee and fine literature. If the sweaters and the chinos and the messenger bags make him a hipster, then so be it, he’ll do what he enjoys, thank you very much.   
Webster visited so often, in fact, that when he finally decided that he wanted to go out and actually _work_ for some semblance of independence and applied, Harry Welsh - proud proprietor - didn’t hesitate in giving Webster the job.

Part-time work and full-time study agree with Webster - he’s surrounded by very many of the books he is, or will be, studying in college, and he proudly and diligently educates himself on as much of the content of the store as he can. (Well, vehemently excluding the comic books in the back, of course. For shame, the thought of it even.) 

Webster takes shifts when he can, preferring the company of his boss and his boss' wife over that of his own parents who “expected better than a run down old book shop" from their little boy. At least they don’t visit him and request lunch, which Webster is insurmountably grateful for.

The shop has a few regulars - mostly students from the art school not too far up the road, or curious tourists - but the local business owners and employees alike provide the cafe with a steady stream of customers. Most consistently it includes the polite and stoic owner of the bar (a close friend of Harry’s, who typically comes in to chat quietly him in the afternoons: milk, no sugar), several of his employees, and a disgruntled youth in ratty t-shirts and ripped jeans who saunters in at all hours of the day, and who is currently the bane of Webster’s existence.   
He’s about Webster’s age (not that Webster has ever expressed any interest in knowing such trivial pieces of information), and that’s just about where any similarity between them ends. This kid is all sharp edges and hard lines, an almost impressive scowl paired with teeth he bares at Webster almost exclusively, grunting his order (black, two sugars), and slapping an issue of whatever comic book he has chosen onto the counter.  
Webster’s developed a keen Spidey sense for when this messy punk comes anywhere near the store (not that Webster would _ever_ use the word ‘Spidey’, ever. It isn’t even a word. Gosh.)

  
Honestly though, the fact that he lets himself even acknowledge the guy is what makes Webster frown at a Penguin Classics promotional poster as if it were personally insulting him. He’s fixating because he’s angry. That’s why.  
It has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that this guy’s voice _drips_ with haughty derision when he snarks at Webster’s personal reading choices. Most of the time, all Webster can do is gape (blessedly, he doesn’t fumble with the change anymore) when _this little shit_ raises his eyebrows and launches into a brief but biting judgement of Webster’s beloved classics. He almost leers as he pushes the latest issue of X-Men onto the counter. The _nerve_ of some people! How dare he insult Kerouac when he-  
And it sort of hits Webster, like a swift baseball bat to the skull, that the reason for Webster’s anger is more of an “ _oh no, he’s hot”_ frustration, not that he’ll be admitting to it anytime soon. He defiantly fights the flush on the back of his neck when he meets those keen eyes. And that _hair_.  
But Webster is a _cultured intellectual_ , dammit, and he’ll argue. And argue. And continue arguing until this paint-splattered gutter child understands why _he’s_ right.  
(Let the records show that Webster is, actually, legally an adult, and that he is very mature.)

The guy gets under his skin, and Webster wants nothing to do with him. (Except that he really, really does.)

 

* * *

 Joseph Liebgott draws and paints a lot, and is in a band (“occasionally”). He splits his time between working in a dilapidated (read: _authentic_ ) music store, and complaining about anything and everything with his friends in the bar run by his boss’ boyfriend. 

He goes to art school, and so everyday he gets his caffeine fix from this coffee-slash-bookstore that is highly cliche in his opinion, but he doesn’t complain about it _too_ much because it has good coffee, and they’re always promoting independent bands and artists. In Joe’s mind, the place has a whole lot of merits, besides the fact that he knows the owner, and that it's super close-by and convenient, and they always have his favourite comic books.  
Actually, there is only one negative aspect about the place and that’s the self-righteous hipster at the counter who just judges his choices and never closes his mouth (like seriously, it’s distracting and obscene, and someday it'll lead to Joe resorting to drastic measures).  
He kind of just, showed up one day; leaning against the stone counter with a thick novel in his hands. He’d glanced at Joe as he’d approached the register, gave him a once over and that had been that, really. Appraising Joe from behind insanely long eyelashes and eyes so blue that Joe was, probably for the first time in his life, speechless. 

Joe’s theory is that a good offence is the best defence, and decides that this boy has no fucking right to cause the reactions that he does, so takes in upon himself to unleash as much of his frustration as he can, in the form of sarcasm. It’s not a difficult thing for Joe, being his asshole self, especially when it gives him something to focus on; that is, something other than the things that he can imagine that mouth doing…

So he dishes out scathing remarks in the hope of, well, honestly a fight. A reason to _actually_ hate this guy so that he can have a genuine reason to scowl and carry on. But this clean-cut college boy gives as good as he gets, and Joe grinds his teeth and burns his tongue on his coffee and seethes.  
It’s a routine for the two of them to argue about bullshit like Webster’s current angsty novel choice, or Joe’s ripped jeans and scuffed boots. Anything, in the hopes that it will sting. A brick wall meeting a brick wall. It’s petty, really, but admitting defeat is a pain worse than death.

”Am I going to have to endure a melodramatic reading of how much you’re charging me, or are you just gonna ring me up so I can get the fuck outta here?” Joe smirks. A lethal blow, in his own opinion.

 ”Just while you’re here, I have to ask: how many homeless people did you rob to achieve today’s look?” A worthy parry, if Webster does say so himself.

 

Harry watches on sometimes from the back and shakes his head. Kitty just thinks it’s adorable. Sipping at her coffee, she tells her husband as much.

“Why? They’re frightening all the customers.” he mumbles, rummaging through a manila folder of store-related paperwork.

“Both of them are so caught up in their personal missions, they’re so certain that their cause is just,” Harry snickers. Kitty just smiles, and watches Joe storm out with his coffee and Webster glare determinately at the register as if it had caused him deep emotional pain. “I mean, for two people who claim to hate each other, they’re really paying a hell of a lot of attention to one another.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will i ever write anything structured, in-depth or cohesive? probably not.
> 
> *throws confetti* enjoy

Joe’s occasional band doesn’t claim to be anything other than mediocre, but they’re proud of it. 

‘Abrasive’, is the term that Nixon uses. ‘Punk’, the word that Joe argues. 

Dick lets them play on the weekends because he _pretends_ to like their sound, and because he can keep an eye on them that way. Though he doesn’t let them drink, because most of them are underage, he prefers to let them hang around his bar having a good time than let them wreak havoc and get into trouble elsewhere. So what, he cares. Sue him.  


Dick doesn’t drink himself, so he’s often behind the bar, attempting to moderate his boyfriend’s intake. It’s a tactical advantage, too; a vantage point he can monitor the establishment from. The bar is old, but it’s clean, and it’s been remodelled a few times to a sort of easy-going pre-war aesthetic. The clientele is pretty standard, the income unremarkably steady, but it’s a good place for the misfits that flock in at the end of the week. They’re rowdy but good-natured, and Dick has grown incredibly fond of them, a fact that Nixon likes to tease him about incessantly. (And if he knows Nixon supplies them with beer sometimes after he officially closes up for the night, well, he’s never mentioned it.) 

_Airborne_ had been a band conceived under the influence of some pilfered whiskey from Nixon’s personal stash, which Malarkey had somehow managed to get his hands on. The band just sort of… played. Whatever and whenever.  
Tab, one of Joe’s closest friends since high school, is typically on vocals; his voice low and clear, with an old-school vibe that means they can cover a wider range of songs. Malarkey plays bass like nobody’s business. Luz, on the other hand, sits behind the drum set like he was born for it. Joe’s position as guitarist was actually an accident, that sort of became his hobby, that sort of became a sneaky talent. (To this day, no one is more surprised than he is.)  
It’s a Saturday night, and _Airborne_ is ready to go. The usual crowd has gathered, and the usual drinks are being distributed. The first notes hit the air and it’s show time. Just another weekend for a bunch of angsty kids to let off some steam.

“You’re getting sentimental,” is the drawling comment from Nixon, and try as he might, the glare Dick sends his way lacks any heat. Instead, he tries his darnedest to hide his smile while wiping the counter; Nixon doesn’t try to hide his knowing smirk.

_Airborne_ is halfway through their 'set' (or, rather, they’ve been at it for an hour, so they’ll call it halfway), when Joe spots the familiar tousled head somewhere near the door. The Man Who Has Ruined Joe's Life isn’t alone, in fact, he’s chatting rather amicably with… _is that Skinny?!_ Traitor. 

He watches as Skinny leads the He Who Is The Bane Of Joe's Existence to a rather packed booth just left of the stage, placing him directly in Joe’s line of sight.

Suddenly he’s staring into those impossibly blue eyes, and his jaw clenches.  
Damn this tiny bar ( _not really_ ), and damn this good for nothing pretentious fool who seems hell-bent on ruining every place and moment that Joe holds dear ( _yes really_ ). This guy just pops up everywhere now, doesn't he? Joe is half prepared to see him at his synagogue.

This guy, this _asshole_ , has his eyes locked on Joe’s. His mouth is open because when the hell isn’t it, and he seems genuinely surprised to see Joe on stage, with a guitar.  
Joe, pathologically prone to be a Grade A Shit, refuses to break eye contact, and this guy is either too stupid or too stunned to break it himself. (Webster, in his own defence, will argue that he was caught off guard to do anything other than stare. And if his thoughts stray a little at the sight of a sweaty and determined Joe, well, no one has to find out.) 

So it continues. A stalemate. Every now and then, Joe makes a show of running his fingers along the neck of the guitar just a tad too suggestively to try and get a rise, and he isn’t disappointed by Webster, whose mouth closes and opens again like a fish out of water, in addition to the flush that creeps along his cheeks. 

 

* * *

 

Skinny isn’t too bothered by the fact that Webster isn’t paying him any attention, considering that he did invite him on the sole premise of showing him his friends’ band. Skinny was more worried that Webster would feel out of place among his bar friends; they’re a pretty tight bunch, after all. But they seem to be treating him pretty well, and Skinny feels as if that’s his job done, and he can sit back and relax.

He’s kind of pleased that Webster is enjoying the show as much as he seems to be. However, after the second full song has been played, Skinny is frowning at the fact that Webster hasn’t said anything, which is significantly out of character.

Pressed up between Perconte and Babe as he is, Skinny watches Webster for a moment: he’s perched on the end of the bench seat, facing the stage, across from Skinny, who catches how his face is slowly reddening, eyes still fixated on the stage.  
Ready to express his concern, Skinny turns to follow Webster’s line of sight and he almost chokes: Skinny's good friend Joe, _Airborne_ 's guitarist, is really, very, not-so-subtly _eye-fucking_  David Webster from the stage. 

Skinny’s eyes roam over the rest of the band, and connect with Malarkey, who seems to have also caught on to the ridiculous staring competition going on just a few feet away from him. Skinny can feel his mouth stretching into a grin, and he turns to see if anyone else has noticed the tangible sexual tension that is unfolding in the middle of the bar.  
As it turns out, Johnny, who is seated on Webster’s left, is giving the situation his undivided attention. His eyes are flicking between Joe and the newcomer, and his signature bitch-face is slowly morphing into a knowing smirk.  
Within minutes, everyone in the booth has cottoned on to the current state of affairs, and Skinny is certain that Babe has messaged Bill (who is working the bar at present), because he very quickly finds himself in a group chat negotiating a betting pool.

 

* * *

 

Finally, Tab is thanking the audience, and _Airborne_ is taking a collective bow, and Joe _finally_ turns around to pack his gear away. He lingers by the amplifier as the rest of the band shuffle down to the booth.

Webster exhales shakily, blinks a few times, and politely smiles through the introductions to the rest of Skinny's friends. He is also becoming painfully aware of how much of an idiot he has made of himself in front of a bunch of people he has only just met.  Skinny looks like he’s about to burst into hysterics, and the ginger kid next to him (Babe was it?) is looking at Webster not unlike the cat that just caught the canary. Maybe Webster is just paranoid, but the entire booth seems to be doing a terrible job of pretending that they didn’t notice Webster and Joe’s x-rated staring contest. Even Malarkey, the bass player, is exchanging a look with Skinny that has Webster fidgeting.  
The guys start chatting amongst themselves and Webster is drawn in by proximity alone, even if he has nothing to add; a fact that surprises Webster himself the most.

“How the _fuck_ do you know each other.” It isn't quite a question, in that it is. Webster freezes. Everyone at the booth is suddenly staring, eyebrows raised, collective expressions caught between amused and apprehensive. Webster swallows, turns in his seat and _goddamn,_ finds his nose just about level with a belt buckle, about a foot of air marking the distance. Webster seems to catch his interrogator off-guard, because his eyes flash with something strange before he takes half a step back.

Webster opens his mouth to respond but Skinny pipes up instead. 

“College, Joe. We had some classes together. He lived across the hall.” Webster shoots him a tight smile. “David Webster, this is Joe Liebgott.” Skinny nods between them. He seems to be waiting for a specific reaction, but Webster’s probably still paranoid. If he were to acknowledge this delusion he would swear that the men in the booth seem to be holding their breath, but at this point, Webster’s halfway to certain he’s losing it so he just tries to retain his hold on reality for a moment longer.

He also feels like he should say something, but Joe just grunts noncommittally before downing the rest of the beer in his hand. Webster is vaguely aware of the unnerving quietude of the booth (he isn't aware of the look of amusement shared between the men around him), he’s too focused on the way that the muscles in Joe’s throat are working as he swallows the drink. When he’s done, he just about slams the bottle onto the table and smacks his lips, narrowing his eyes at Webster, who is still staring.

“College boy,” It’s oddly cutting, and Webster feels himself bristle. Joe has a derisive voice, and it almost demands a reaction. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

“Perhaps this comes as a surprise, Joe,”” Webster starts slowly, “But this is a public place, where patrons can come and go without asking for permission.” Someone behind him snorts.

It’s satisfying to see Joe’s nostrils flare, even as Skinny’s eyebrows seem to climb impossibly higher upon his forehead.

There’s been a tension in the air since Webster locked eyes with Joe, and now as he stares up at him, he’s really aching for a … for a what? A fight? Hell yeah, he’ll take it. They’re staring at each other again, and Webster honestly couldn't say for how long, before someone in the booth clears their throat loudly. Joe huffs, and takes another step back.

“It was nice to meet ya, _Web_.” He snarks, in a voice that implies anything but pleasantness, and then he’s ruffling Webster’s hair and stomping away.

 

It’s this moment that Skinny finally loses it and collapses onto the table in a fit of laughter, much to the dismay of a pouting, confused David Webster.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who has two thumbs and can't write dialogue!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> will i ever stick to an update schedule? unlikely. will i ever plan what i write before sit down and write it at 3am before i post it unbeta'd? less likely. welcome to the trainwreck that is my writing!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think there’s a whole lot a’ cussin’ in here i guess, but the rating isn’t going to change.  
> i’m throwing characters around in this like nobody’s business, and if i fail to “”introduce”” anyone it’s because i am lazy af and bc this story isn’t about them  
> this is going to have one more chapter, but i feel like i may come back to this ‘verse for other pairings or situations so stay tuned i guess

Webster shows up at the bar more often, much to Joe’s irritation, but very much to everyone else’s entertainment. Of course, the fact that every time he walks in Joe does his very best to annihilate him with his glaring is only half the fun. (Joe spends a week not talking to anyone because of how easily and warmly they welcome David into their midst. Nobody actually cares; they all just let Joe have his little tantrum on his own before going back to business as usual.)   
Webster has become one of the gang now, and when he's not yelling at Joe across the bar, he’s chatting with Babe about school work, or deftly trying to out-pun Luz.

“I thought kids these days did all their homework at Starbucks or something,” Nix says, frowning at Babe, Gene and Tab poring over books spread out over one of the booth tables. “Is this bad for business?”

Dick just shakes his head fondly at Luz, Malarkey and Perconte who are at a corner table, throwing a hacky sack at one another, shouting historical dates and names of figures in an attempt to memorise. “Well, considering how much they collectively spend on sodas and food, I really don’t think we can complain.”

“Are we turning into a hipster hang out?" Nixon gasps theatrically, "Do I need to board up some windows?” He leans on the bar, looking authentically earnest. “How about I roll out a beer-soaked carpet? That’ll create an atmosphere,” He cracks a grin at Dick, who’s wrinkling his nose at the thought.  “You’re such a dad to these kids, it’s giving me cavities.” 

(Dick is a mature adult, and doesn’t stick his tongue out at him. But it’s a near thing.)

 

* * *

 

Much to Webster’s displeasure and much to Joe’s delight, Joe’s derisively chosen moniker ‘Web’ has stuck - sadly extending past the usual morning bookshop banter and into the speech of their friends too. (Babe’s quick recovery stands testament to the fact that he doesn’t actually have a death wish, _Gene,_ and that he has some modicum of reflex to add ‘ster’, however delayed, whilst attempting to get David’s attention.)  
The simple fact is that Joe and Webster’s ritual wisecracks have turned significantly more heated, in a way that have made Harry splutter coffee over his business statements, and caused Kitty to drop more silverware than is becoming of a dexterous and coordinated adult.

“Good morning, _Web_. I couldn’t help but notice your scarf.” Joe leers, resting a hip against the counter, dropping the newest _Miss Marvel_ onto the surface. He slides his money across the counter with deft fingers. “It is _that_ hideous, and  _that_ pretentious, I just can't decide between shoving it down your throat or tying you up with it.”

Webster, to his credit, maintains an impassive expression and just drops the money in the till. Fishing out the correct change, he fixes his eyes on Joe’s.

“Well, Joe, that’s fair. But, just so I hope _you’re_ aware: your sweater is an eyesore. In fact,” He makes a show of dragging his gaze up and down Joe’s body. “Your whole outfit sucks. Take it off. Right now sounds good.” He extends his hand with Joe’s change between them, but neither of them break eye contact. Joe looks like he’s grinding his teeth together; out of his peripherals, Webster can see the muscle in his jaw working, and it’s taking a lot of his self control to prevent himself from staring at it outright.

Joe tucks the comic towards his chest, and takes his change, a huffing loudly when Webster’s fingers graze lightly over his wrist. When he leaves, stomping and scowling, David releases a long breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

 

* * *

  

Since Webster’s so chummy with the rest of the boys at the bar, it means that he and Joe can’t avoid each other as much as they would like the rest of the world to believe that they try. They’re both really good at pretending to actively ignoring each other, but then they both seem to have a finely tuned sense which picks up when the other so much as breathes wrong. The outcome is constant bickering, about anything and everything, from politics to literature to vegetarian meal options.

Or, rather, it would be, if it wasn’t for the barrage of innuendos that they throw around. Too many times have casualties been narrowly avoided, typically in the form of Skinny ending up pressed between them in a booth, rolling his eyes and regretting every decision he’s ever made. (Gene had had quite enough of calming a borderline-traumatised Babe, and had taken to bodily dragging him away when the atmosphere began to grow tense. _Too often_.)

Basically, everyone and their mother has had enough of the back-and-forth flirting jabs that end with the two of them staring at one another for far too long, before storming off and ruining everyone’s mood.  
No one blames Webster -the thought wasn’t even considered that he’s upset any sort of balance. The rest of the gang just kind of _really_ want them to get their shit together.  
(The collective idea of smacking the both of them upside the head would probably only work if there weren’t a dozen volunteers for the task, not to mention that it would upset the betting pool, which is already sitting in the low hundreds.)

Even though Webster is sporting a 3.8 GPA, and Joe is whip-smart, and the both of them are sharp and witty enough to keep up with one another, they remain oblivious to the fact that they have set the rules for a bar-wide drinking game.

_Take a shot: every time Joe gets up in Webster’s face; every time Webster leaves his mouth open while Joe’s shouting; every time the two of them are yelling over each other; etc._  

The rules are surreptitiously sent around in a group chat, and Nixon chants “SHOT!” from the bar every time, and no one is any wiser.

 

* * *

 Even with David invading nearly every element of Joe’s life, the simmering tension between them doesn’t reach a breaking point for the longest time. That is, it doesn’t really surprise anyone that alcohol is involved.

It’s Guarnere’s birthday, and it’s a private party, and the establishment is ‘officially’ closed. The fact is, that Dick is sitting in the far corner of the room with his back to the bar, chatting to Lipton, ignoring the fact that Bill is serving drinks left, right and centre. Bill is nowhere near sober himself, but at this point it is muscle memory, and the delight he gets from Babe - waving his hands around as he explains something to Gene, who is smiling almost serenely - and from Luz, who is trying to keep up with Nixon.

As expected, Joe and Webster’s standard argument, contained to the far end of the bar, has gradually escalated. Everyone is pretending to ignore them, the music is loud enough to drown them out, but no one will deny that they are a source of background entertainment, so they’re given the benefit of the doubt.  
The two of them are super close; Joe’s crowding Webster up against the bar, but Webster doesn’t appear to be uncomfortable, as if being trapped against an unyielding counter by his Arch Nemesis isn’t disconcerting, but rather a common inconvenience that he has to deal with. Which doesn’t seem like much a stretch for the truth.  
Joe’s scowling, naturally, and he’s leaning into the hand he’s planted on the bar by Webster’s left hip. He’s also arguing his point, rather vehemently, over the thudding bass of Bill’s playlist. He also can’t take his eyes off Webster’s stupid, dumb _open_ mouth. Frankly, he isn’t even sure what he’s defending anymore (or attacking?), and from the looks of it, Webster isn’t paying too much attention either.  Joe’s shirt collar has slipped to reveal the jutting line of his collar bone, and Joe hasn’t noticed yet, but Webster sure has and all he desperately wants to just, _bite_ into it.

“You aren’t even fucking listening to me, fucking typical,” Joe snarls.

Webster’s eyes snap to his, and he bites out an equally venomous, “Well I can’t be expected to pay attention to everything you say, since you don’t _ever_ shut up.”

“Look who’s fucking talking, asshole,” and Joe presses closer, and Webster’s nostrils flare as he tips his head back in a challenge. 

Joe honest-to-God _growls_ and leans in those scant inches to crush his mouth against Webster’s, his hand practically around his throat. 

Webster gives as good as he gets; digging his fingertips into Joe’s hips with a bruising force _,_ when Joe sinks his teeth into Webster’s bottom lip, because they’re kissing the same way that they speak to each other - with a roiling anger that translates into constant force. Joe leans Webster back, and swallows the moan that tries to escape Webster’s throat. He’s tracing Webster’s molars with his tongue, and he’s got a knee between his thighs, and Webster is raking his nails along his ribs and-

There’s a cheer erupting from the entire room. Glasses are raised and Babe is all but bouncing out of his seat because _he’s won, dammit! Gene, I'm rich!!_

“Please no hanky-panky on the counter!” is Nixon’s cry, audible over the applause. _  
_ Joe is ready to improvise with a napkin dispenser and use it to commit murder, but he takes one look at Webster’s kiss-swollen lips and blown pupils, and he drags him, none too gently, out of the bar and down the street to his apartment.

They slam the door on the raucous celebrations, and Winters muttering “ _Fucking finally_ ” into his glass.

 

* * *

 

 

They fuck the same way they fight. It’s a competition, and neither is willing to submit. They’re rough, they mark each other up with teeth and nails. Nothing is sacred. Not for them. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also i think that serving alcohol to ‘minors’ regardless of your establishment being “”officially closed”” is illegal but i’m not american so writing this was challenge enough bc 21 is a ridiculous age to finally drink at and these kids are like, 19, and they’re drinking okay, legislation be damned


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long. [insert feasible excuse]  
> you will not be pleased.

Their routine is maintained, though it loses some of its bite (though none of its heat). They’re loathe to admit it, but they come to rely upon each other.

They still tease each other, and fight and shout - much to the dismay of their friends and coworkers - but sometimes they do normal things, like normal people do.

Sometimes they sit together in a booth and discuss issues amicably and with a certain maturity that even makes Dick do a double take the first time he sees them, mistaking them for strangers. (The rest of their friends are seated along the bar, watching silently, with Luz swearing on his _life_ that they’ve been replaced with aliens and refusing to believe otherwise.)

Joe still buys his coffee and his comic books, though Webster has mostly memorised his schedule, meaning that more often than not there’s a to-go cup set next to a volume on the counter waiting for him in the morning. It’s domestic and so ridiculously conscientious that Joe is rendered catatonic the first time it happens and try as he might, he can’t find a reason to be angry about it, resulting in his fisting his hand in David’s _ugly as sin, pretentious cardigan_ and pulling him across the counter to kiss him. (Kitty may or may not have snapped a photo, and she may or may not be holding it for potential blackmail purposes.)

 

The day that Joe finds out - from Skinny (who is done beyond words with everything and everyone, most of all with The Personal Lives of David and Joseph) - that Webster knows German, is the day that _Airborne_ plays their first full instrumental gig (because Tab may be talented enough, but he cannot sing _and_ play guitar), but also the day that Webster will silently forever claim as The Best Of His Life. (Joe drags him out of the bar before he can even sit down and spends the entire evening pressing words into his skin, and David repeats them like prayers because they’re just as potent, just as beautiful…)

 

They're not dating though.

 

Sometimes they study together; Webster’s books and notes spread out over the coffee table, Joe sprawled out on the couch.

Sometimes they just hang out, watching dumb movies together, just because.

(“David, no, just because it has ‘shark’ in the title-“

“It can’t be that bad,”  
“Have you been living under a rock? Have you, in all your literary wisdom, really never read _anything_ about the disaster that is ‘Sharknado’?”

“Sorry but-“

“I will forgive you if you delete that off your computer right now, and put Star Wars on instead. _”_ )

 

They’re definitely not dating though.

 

Webster still pulls a perfunctory face at Joe’s clothing choices, even if he kind of secretly loves the fact that there’s paint under his nails, or in his hair sometimes (because will sit still for once, and lean his head against his hand while he picks it out from the strands). Webster kind of loves it when he finds him dozing like a cat in pools of sunlight, with smudges of graphite or charcoal on his sleep-soft face; he kind of secretly loves the fact that Joe hums when he’s doodling in his sketchbook, coffee balanced precariously on the arm of a chair or his thigh.

 

For his part, Joe still thinks that Web in an obnoxious hipster, but in turn he also won’t admit that he kind of loves the way that David’s mouth curls around particular words when he’s reading those tomes of his - his _classics_. Joe also won’t admit to seeing, let alone loving, the way Webster purses his lips to prevent himself from actually smiling when he’s reading whichever comic Joe leaves on his nightstand when he thinks that Joe is still asleep; won’t admit to loving the way David’s eyes shine when he’s writing. 

 

Basically, Joseph Liebgott and David Webster sort of, somehow, become best friends. Best friends who sleep together, enable one another’s caffeine addictions, bicker, and throw things at each other.  
(“Babe, for the ninetieth time _I’m sorry_ ,” 

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t _un-_ concuss me, Joseph! Who the fuck throws a _cue ball_?” 

“Hey, I was trying to return fire for the cue stick _someone_ javelin-threw at me!” 

Gene breaks up the circle of angry youth, by pushing through with a fresh ice pack for Babe, “Okay, let’s agree that no one here is any good at ANY sports, and never have a repeat performance.”)

 

They’re _not_ dating.

They’re best friends. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooOOOkaaaaaaay so guess who messed up and accidentally shoved PLOT where it didn't belong, and now has to WRITE MORE??!?!?!???¿¿¿¿¿?????  
> THERE WILL BE ANOTHER PART OKAY  
> I have it written, it just didn't fit as an extra chapter, which i was all ready and roaring to add to make this a borderline-functional, 5 chapter dump.
> 
> i want to thank you all for reading and stuff, like, it means so much to me bc most of the time all i'm really doing is shouting this nonsense into the Void, but with y'all here it makes it less sad. you're all the MVPs

**Author's Note:**

> so this trainwreck is a result of me listening to too much indie rock/pop, rewatching band of brothers for the fortieth time, and being absolute college/coffeshop au trash. *throws confetti*
> 
>  
> 
> title comes from fall out boy's 'the kids aren't alright', which is a perfect song that can be applied to every ship ever


End file.
